Sunday, September 17, 2006


I called Joe midweek, somehow expecting to leave a message, but he picked up. It was the middle of the day and he was at work, doing business on the other line, so it was a very brief conversation. I thanked him for the book and he asked if I was still working at the club, and I said, yes, and we rang off.

Last night a waitress came up to my stage during my rotation and told me a customer wanted to buy me a drink, and I looked where she was pointing, and there he was. I checked myself in the mirror and was relieved that I had done my hair and smeared myself with fake tanner and was looking pretty good. It was "Hawaian Night" at the club so I had on the brown-with-gold bottoms of my actual bikini, and a cute peasanty-beach top and my $3 imitation Louis Vuitton sunglasses from Juarez. It was a good look. These things matter. So I got off stage and did my slinkiest walk over the table and he stood up to give me a hug. He's tall. Tall enough that I still have to tilt my head up a little to meet his eyes, and bear in mind that in my six-inch Lucite heels I am NBA height.

With little ado, we went back to the Champagne Room and scandalized the entire staff for the next four hours by drinking moderately, talking much, and keeping all of our clothes on. The bouncer kept wandering past our couch to eye us suspiciously and wonder what the hell was up with us. "Are you two getting married?" he asked at one point. Later, a manager came over while Joel was rubbing my shoulders and told us the police were in the club. This is a polite way of telling you to stop whatever you're doing because it's crossing the line. Funny thing is, if I'd been using my ass muscles to grind him to orgasm, no one would have blinked an eye, but putting my head on his shoulder and stroking his hair made everyone uncomfortable. So grinding is fine, I guess, but affection is tabu.

I left that night with my throat hurting and my brain in a buzz. This morning I feel sticky and clumsy still. I remember this feeling. It's a crush. How remarkable. How stupid. And, probably, how unwelcome. A stripper's job is to flesh out fantasy. Fantasies don't have feelings; that's part of the deal. A stripper doesn't miss you when you don't call, is in love with you only for the hour a week or evening a month that you can spare, doesn't have a birthday for you do forget. It's a lovely arrangement that way -- simple, elegant. Hell, my number one dance-selling line is "You won't have to call me in the morning."

Besides which, I adore and admire and belust my boyfriend and want to be sorting his underpants our from mine in the laundry for many, many years to come. I'm not going to take a flying leap for a roll in the hay with a 47-year-old high-power-salesman type, however lilting his British cum North African accent, however tom cat his smile. So now I'm Googling brachmacharya, the yogic principle of chastity, loyalty, continence. I'm coming up with stuff like this:
Often translated as celibacy, brachmacharya is controlling sexual desire, redirecting this energy to deepen our connection to the Devine. Uncontrolled, sexual desire and activity can easily bring out the worst in people. When one attempts to completely sublimate or suppress this energy, it has a tendency to manifest in life-negating ways. Only when one learns to channel this energy in healthy, nourishing ways will one be free to deepen spiritually.

Yes, sure. But how? How how how how how how HOW? I need to know, and soon, or else I'm off to flog myself into a masturbatory frenzy over a middle-aged guy with three adolescent children, and then maybe I'll I dunno meditate or something. God help me.


Brad K. said...

In the old 'Kung Fu' TV series, Caine falls in love once. He is told 'Acknowledge your desire, or it will have power over your.', but not to act on the (inappropriate) desire. I would think quiet time and meditating would be a really good thing. Figure out how much of the attraction is sexual energy (likely not much -- you have met Good Salesmen before, surely), and how much is social intercourse. That is, you had his attention, and he had yours. You may be sorting panties and briefs, but when was the last time you and your boyfriend spent four (4) hours with attention only for each other. With clothes on. Instead of worrying about having a crush on Joel, consider that he gave you a gift, of himself and his time. Open the gift, delight in the gift and in the receiving. Now look at what you responded most to, the most precious parts. This will help identify unmet needs that you have, or directions you would like to grow.

So sort out how much was Joel, and how much was the pleasure of having a person pay attention to you. Take the time to decide which itches still need scratched, and which were fun, but like a trip to Disneyland won't happen again this year. Then meditate to be sure you haven't overlooked anything, and to re-center your self and your thinking.

(I just noticed my music player is cycling through Berlin's 'Take My Breath Away'. I wonder what that means? And now 'You've Lost That Loving Feeling', Righteous Brothers. Go figure.)

If you want to re-direct energy, how about splitting it? Make a nice meal for the boyfriend (or some other gift he appreciates), and at the club, try to let others see how much joy you felt from your encounter with Joel.

Sir Cranky said...

Dear Grace: It's interesting to read about your experiencing some of the same ambiguities I do as a customer of clubs when I've had a good time with a dancer...the circuitous thought processes as I weigh the reality or illusion of what I enjoyed, and whether it has any value except the momentary--like Brad K's useful comparison to Disneyland. I discovered your blog through I have my own blog on related matters at

Peter said...

Hi Grace, I stumbled across your blog and found it really fascinating.

It has been great for me, a real wakeup call on the relationship between client and dancer. I also really loved your personal stuff and found it really thought provoking, and sometimes very beautiful.

I wrote this yesterday afternoon to try and capture my feelings about being a customer at a lapdancing place last week.

Not sure if you get much of this kind of stuff from readers, so feel free to publish or delete or leave in the comments or whatever. Or just ignore it and I will leave it out in the wild of the internet to grow weeds and die.

I'd love your perspective, though, even if it's "grow up saddo"!

Cheers & best of luck with life.